


Christmas Eve, 1974: John

by LydianNode



Series: More Full of Weeping [4]
Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Language, Very vague hint of personal abuse, out-of-wedlock pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-04
Updated: 2019-03-04
Packaged: 2019-11-09 08:25:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17998358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LydianNode/pseuds/LydianNode
Summary: John wants to know if Freddie will be free on January 18th, 1975."It's...something important. And I want you to be there.""Whatever for?" Freddie jokes. "Is it a shotgun wedding, Deacy? Is Veronica up the stick?"When the crude witticism falls flat and John simply nods his head in affirmation, Freddie stares at him, mouth agape.





	Christmas Eve, 1974: John

Christmas Eve, 1974

  

Freddie is supposed to be draping scarves over the lamps to provide a more colourful atmosphere, but the handfuls of silk just beg to be danced with. He floats around the room, humming to himself as he flings away one scarf after another like Salomé performing for Herod. Holding one of Mary's fringed shawls, Freddie spins in place until he spots another figure in the doorway. 

Frozen to the spot, holding the cloth to his chest like a scandalised grannie clutching her pearls, Freddie finds himself looking at John. "Deacy! You scared me half to death - how'd you get in here?" 

"Mary let me in. I knocked for quite a while, but I guess you didn't hear me." He is leaning against the door jamb, and despite the tiny smile at the corners of his mouth, he looks so upset that Freddie forgets to be embarrassed at being caught out doing something so silly. 

"Darling, you look frightful. Come, sit." Freddie collapses on the sofa, still a bit winded, and shoves cushions aside to make room for John. "Mary, my love, will you make us some tea?" he calls. 

"She's not here," John says quickly, and at Freddie's raised eyebrow he adds, "I asked her to give us some time alone, actually. I need to speak with you in private." 

This doesn't bode well. 

John makes his way to the sofa and sits down next to Freddie. His folded hands are trembling despite the warmth in the flat. He doesn't say anything, just stares at his hands as if he's never seen them before. 

"If you want to speak to me in private, you're being so private that I can't hear anything," Freddie murmurs as he nudges John with his shoulder. 

John doesn't laugh. 

After a few more moments of tense silence, John sighs and sits upright, shaking his hair out of his face. "Are you busy on January the eighteenth?" 

The _non sequitur_ fails to register. "I don't understand." 

Finally looking straight at Freddie, John clarifies the question. "It's...something important. And I want you to be there." 

"Whatever for?" Freddie jokes. "Is it a shotgun wedding, Deacy? Is Veronica up the stick?" 

When the crude witticism falls flat and John simply nods his head in affirmation, Freddie stares at him, mouth agape. 

_Shit. Oh, shit._

Freddie can't think straight. The bottle of wine he had over dinner is making his head spin, and words tumble out unbidden. "Are you sure it's yours?" 

He richly deserves John's furious snarl and the hard shove that almost knocks him to the floor. "You bastard!" John shouts. "How can you--"

"God, Deacy, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I'm a little drunk and it was a shock, that's all." Freddie approaches John warily, as if trying to help a wounded animal. "I don't know what came over me. I just didn't realise that the two of you were...intimate enough for her to fall pregnant." 

Not even remotely calmed, John pushes Freddie again. The twist of his mouth is deliberately cruel. "Just because you're not intimate enough with Mary," he begins, then claps his hand over his mouth. 

They glare at one another. Freddie pinches the space above the bridge of his nose, hoping to ward off the headache that's beginning to pound in his sinuses. John just sits with his eyes lowered as he breathes shallowly. "Fred, that was uncalled for," he mutters. The words are painfully vague. 

"What was uncalled for? Your insult or mine, DEAR?" responds Freddie, still upset, still glaring. 

John shrugs, the angry flush on his cheeks dissipating until he's deathly pale against the dark frame of his hair. Freddie notes the blue-grey circles under his eyes and the swelling of his lower lip where he's been biting it. He leans closer to John, hands spread to indicate that he's no longer able to stay angry with him. "When did you find out?" he asks kindly. 

"Two...no, three days ago. We'd suspected, but Ronnie went to a doctor to make sure. And it IS my child, thank you very much." 

"I know it is, of course it is." Freddie takes John's hands in his own, relieved that all the fight has gone out of him. "You've told your mum, and her parents?" 

Groaning, John rocks back and forth. "My mum was...mostly okay. Disappointed in me but secretly glad to be a youngish grandmother. But Ronnie's parents are very, extremely, unbelievably Catholic. I don't know if they're angrier with me or with her, to tell the truth, but it was still fucking awful." 

Freddie hasn't met Veronica's parents but from what he's heard of them, he can imagine that scene all too vividly. 

"How do you feel about it?" 

It's clearly a struggle for John to utter his next words. "I keep thinking about my dad. How disappointed he'd be in me. In a way, I'm glad he's not here." He bites his lip again, the flesh turning pale pink beneath his teeth. 

"And you're disappointed in yourself for thinking that way," Freddie declares. "I'm not judging you, darling. In your shoes I'd probably feel the same way." He knows that John was at a tender age when his father died, just as his Mary was far too young to have to endure the loss of her mother. Curiously it's the only bond, and a fragile thing it is, between these two people whom Freddie dearly loves. 

John goes back to studying his hands. "It's weird. The thought of becoming a father, when I have so little experience having one. What if I screw it up? Who could I ask for help?" 

Freddie would hardly hold up his own father as a role model, not with the emotional distance bordering on abuse. Roger's father is conspicuous only by his absence. Brian's dad seems nice enough in his way, but far too rigid. "Well, you could always rely on the three of us," he says, darting a glance and seeing, with relief, that John is smiling. "Well, not with nappies and that lot, which are simply revolting, but Roger would be a brilliant playmate and I can't imagine a more thorough teacher than Brian."  
  
"What about you?" John inquires with a broad grin. 

"Me?" Freddie is tempted to say 'nothing,' but that would ruin the moment. Instead he tosses his head and declares, "I'm always good for a cuddle." 

John tips over into Freddie's open arms. "Thank God for that," he whispers into Freddie's shirt as tears begin to fall. "I don't know what I'll do when I'm not around you." 

"What?" Confused, Freddie holds him closer. "I'm not going anywhere." 

"When I'm not in the band anymore." 

The sudden, cold sense of dread almost knocks Freddie over.

"Deacy, dearest, you're not making any sense. Why wouldn't you be in the band anymore? Because you'll be married, and a father?" Freddie's words come out quickly because his heart is beating far too fast. "We'll put up a disclaimer, like they did for Lennon when the Beatles played on the Ed Sullivan show: 'Sorry, girls, he's married.'" 

"No, it's not that," John says thickly. "Veronica's dad expects me to give her a good life - and I want to, don't misunderstand - including finding us a house." 

"That sounds reasonable enough," Freddie says soothingly. He pats John's back lightly and smoothes his hair. "But why would you have to leave Queen to do that, just when we're really starting to take off?" 

"But are we?" When John pulls back, his expression is so woeful that Freddie longs to wrap him up in blankets and bring him sweet, milky tea. "I thought, 'fair enough,' and went to see Norman." 

The mere mention of their manager's name makes Freddie's hackles rise. "Why him, of all people?" 

"Because I need money. Not a lot, just enough to put a down payment on a little place to get us started." John begins to pull at the edges of his fingernails until Freddie stops him. "He told me no." 

Freddie's entire body quivers in indignation, his hold on John's upper arms all that keeps him from falling over. 

John continues, his voice listless, almost embarrassed. "He said we weren't bringing in enough money for him to do that." He sighs heavily. "I'm going to have to get some other kind of job, something that actually pays me for what I do. I didn't even ask him to GIVE me the money, Freddie, just a loan, and I'd have paid it back, but he wouldn't even consider it." 

"Oh! Oh, that bastard!" Freddie realizes that he's hanging onto John hard enough to leave a mark and he rubs his hands up and down the muscles in apology. "After everything you've done, after all the money he's made off of our hard work - he's got a fucking nerve!" 

He's well and truly wound up now, jumping off the sofa and pacing the room with long, cat-like strides. "He should be showering you with cash," he continues, pointing at John. "You put in so much work and get so little credit. It has to be worth at least that much. And what about our royalties? Why are we getting a fucking weekly allowance after selling all those records and doing those tours?" 

John has been asking these questions all along, of course, but Freddie has been too entranced with the joy of creating music to pay much attention. "He doesn't care about us," John says, his tears turning to anger. "We're just a cash cow for him, the goose laying the golden egg. Remember when he made us fly back from America because he was too cheap to pay hospital bills for Brian?" 

How could he forget that night, dragging poor Brian through the New York airport and praying he'd pass out on the plane because he was in such agony? 

"He almost lost his arm. He could've DIED, Freddie. And all Norman cared about was how long it'd take for us to finish the album. I still can't believe how quickly Brian went back to the studio." 

"Norman threatened him," Freddie continues. John looks up at him, plainly shocked. "Norman threatened to replace him if he didn't get into the studio and play. That's how he ended up in the hospital again, with the bleeding ulcer." 

"Jesus!" John exclaims. "So when we erased everything he felt had to do it all over from scratch, because he thought Norman would FIRE him." John blinks rapidly. "Could he have done that, over our objections?" 

"Legally, sure. But he'd have had to go through me first, if he'd tried it." 

John frowns as he points to himself. "And Roger and me, IF someone had bothered to tell us." 

There's so much love in that quiet man, so much fierce protectiveness. How could anyone take such blatant advantage of him? Freddie drops onto the sofa again and drapes an arm around John's shoulders. "Luckily, I made certain that wouldn't be necessary." 

At such a price. 

Always perceptive, John cocks his head and looks Freddie in the eye. "There's more, isn't there?" he asks gently. 

Freddie wishes he could tell him, spill out the whole sordid story. "Yes. Someday I might tell you about it, but not now." He reaches out and tucks a strand of John's hair behind his ear. "Now, no more talk about you leaving our band - the very idea! Let me take care of our asshole manager, and you can go on about planning your wedding." 

John pulls a face. "I'm not particularly involved in the planning. I'm just the groom, remember?" 

"And a marvelous one you shall be, darling." Eager to get off the topic of Sheffield, Freddie prattles on. "Who's going to stand up for you? Roger? No, he's too pretty, Veronica might just run off with him. There's Brian, who'd just tower over everyone, so that leaves--" 

"Freddie." John looks uncomfortable. "I've asked Nigel." 

"Ah. Of course." Nigel Bullen had been the drummer in The Opposition, John's previous band. Decent enough fellow, if deadly dull. Tamping down the disappointment he hadn't even expected to feel, Freddie forces a smile. 

John doesn't smile back at first. "I was his best man when he married Ruth," he explains gently. "Besides, I couldn't pick just one of you, could I, and how would that end up? Imagine poor Ronnie, surrounded by you lot at the altar! You'd be fixing her veil every three seconds, Brian would be quizzing the priest on Church doctrine, and Roger would be trying to pick up the maid of honour." 

"Sounds rather fun," Freddie says brightly, "but I do see your point. I'll be thrilled to be a guest, and I promise not to cry TOO loudly." 

"I really am sorry, Fred, because--" John is cut off by the sound of nearby church bells. It's midnight, and Christmas Eve is becoming Christmas Day. He stands up, rubbing his hands on his trousers awkwardly. "I'm supposed to be at my mother's in a few hours, so I should go get some sleep." He lifts his tired glance to Freddie, his seafoam-grey eyes bashful. "Am I still invited to the party tonight?" 

"Oh, Deacy, of COURSE you are, darling, what a silly question!" Freddie leaps up and folds John in his arms. "It won't be a party without you dancing the night away. Do bring Veronica if she's up to it. There'll be drinks without alcohol, somehow; I'll get Mary to take care of all that. We'll be the first to celebrate Queen's first Prince or Princess!" 

To Freddie's astonished delight, John grins and kisses him on the cheek. "You're amazing! Happy Christmas, Freddie." 

"Happy Christmas, Deacy." Freddie ruffles John's hair as he leads him to the door. "Give my love to your mum, and I'll see you tonight." 

"Thank you. For everything." John's face, always so candid, shines in the reflected glow of streetlamps and stars. He's always been a marvelous musician, a staunch friend, and he's going to be an extraordinary father and husband. 

"You're welcome. Always." 

Freddie watches as John stuffs his hands in his pockets and begins walking, whistling to himself the way he does when he is consumed by thought. Freddie is thinking, too, about how close the band came to losing half of its sonic volcano, and about who is to blame. 

And how to punish him. 

Freddie forces his anger and resentment to the side for now. On Boxing Day he'll make Norman Sheffield suffer for everything: for humiliating and misusing him, for undervaluing Roger's massive contribution to the band, for driving Brian past the point of endurance. But for making John, Freddie's beloved Deacy, feel that he had to leave his brothers - he can't yet think of a punishment truly horrible enough to fit the crime. Four horsemen might do. 

Or perhaps just two legs.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I have a tumblr: https://www.tumblr.com/blog/lydiannode - come talk to me!


End file.
